


Losing Control

by The_Buzz



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Broken Bones, Confessions, Forced to torture, Friendship, Gen, Gen or Pre-Slash, Hurt Steve, Hurt Tony Stark, Hurt/Comfort, Hydra (Marvel), M/M, Mild self-directed violence but only under mind control, Mind Control, Mind controlled Steve, Non-Consensual Drug Use, PTSD, Plot Twists, Steve Angst, Tony Angst, Tony Whump, Torture, alternating pov, light slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-13
Updated: 2017-03-17
Packaged: 2018-10-04 08:16:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 18,033
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10272227
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Buzz/pseuds/The_Buzz
Summary: Tony and Steve are captured by HYDRA. A tesseract-infused dart forces Steve to follow his HYDRA handler's every order, while a truth serum means that Tony can tell no lies. Steve is forced to torture Tony, then inexplicably ordered to take care of him. To make matters worse, Steve feels exactly like himself, and there are a few things that Tony really doesn't want Steve to know. And what is HYDRA really up to?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story is set during the second wave of Marvel movies, before Steve and Tony are really friends. I originally intended for this to be completely gen and focused on their friendship, but some shippiness snuck itself in there anyway. Still, I think either interpretation (wanting romance vs. wanting a stronger friendship) still works. Also, I have a headcanon that things between Tony and Pepper went south shortly after IM3 (explaining why she wasn't at the party in AOU), and I'm going with that timeline here.
> 
> The story is finished, and I'll post the rest of the chapters over the next few days as I edit them. 
> 
> Please enjoy!

Steve was the only one at the Tower when it happened. He’d stopped by on Tony’s invitation to go over some plans for the new Avengers complex, which they were planning to build from one of Howard’s old weapons storage facilities. It was the first time they’d been in a room alone together since, well, New York, and Tony found himself far more anxious than he had any right to be.

The truth was, for all he’d resented Steve as a teenager for stealing his father’s attention and affection, he _liked_ the man. It was impossible not to, really. 

Even if it seemed clear that Steve had no interest in being friends, let alone anything else, with a man like Tony.

Sure, they’d gotten off on the wrong foot. Tony had never seen a reason to censor himself in meeting new people, and it hadn’t occurred to him until later on the Helicarrier that Steve had taken his jibing to heart. By the time he’d flown the nuke into the wormhole all that existed of their relationship were a few hostile exchanges and the discovery that, despite all that, they worked pretty well together as a team. Then they’d eaten shawarma and gone their separate ways. Steve hadn’t even called him in when SHIELD had fallen, a sure-fire signal that Steve barely thought him a teammate, let alone a friend. Then the Avengers had gotten together again, first to mop up what remained of Hydra in SHIELD, and then to search (unsuccessfully) for Loki’s staff, and every embarrassing feeling Tony had tried to quash came back with a vengeance. He wanted Steve to like him. He wanted Steve to look at him like… like he meant something to him, like he deserved all of the goodness that Steve had to offer.

Instead, Tony did what he always did when there was a chance he felt a lot stronger for someone else than they did for him. He resolved never to admit a damn thing to anyone, and made sure to annoy Steve just enough to make sure he never, ever guessed it himself.

They were seated at one of the middle-floor conference tables in the Tower now. Somehow, its empty length made Tony uncomfortably aware of how close they were—Steve a mere foot or two away from him, their knees almost brushing under the table as Tony spread out holograms of floor plans and a helipad and the new gym and a living quarters for all of the old and new Avengers.

“This is amazing,” Steve said sincerely, his clear blue eyes bright with enthusiasm as he examined the specs for the gym.

It was far too close to how Tony wished Steve would look at _him_. Time for a little deflection.

“Really? Not too civilian for you? Think you can handle barking out orders in a place that has a rock-climbing wall?”

Steve’s expression dampened, and he let out a slow breath through his nose. As if Tony was finally delivering on what he’d been expecting the whole time. “I think a rock-climbing wall sounds incredibly useful for training. Widow and Hawkeye scale buildings all the time.”

Tony shrugged, and Steve went back to examining the plans, his expression far more guarded.

“What’s this?” he asked a few minutes later, pointing at the corner in one of the common areas.

“Bar,” Tony said easily.

Now, Steve did let out a loud sigh. His eyes grazed over Tony with that look that always made Tony think he was seeing someone else—probably Howard, with a drink in his hand. “A bar? In the complex. Really.”

“Come on, who doesn’t love a martini after a mission gone well,” Tony said. “Gotta let loose sometimes.”

“This would be the official Avengers base,” Steve said, frowning at him in a way that made the pit of Tony’s stomach drop out. “We have to send a message, Stark. People look up to us. Kids. You can drink on your own time.”

Now, something like real irritation was building inside him. As if he was the only one who ever enjoyed a drink. As if Steve’s abstinence somehow made him _better_. “We’re not all soldiers, Cap. And you might be the leader of the team but it doesn’t mean you get to call all the shots.”

Steve glowered. “For once, can’t you just—“ he started, then broke off with a disgusted sigh. “I am the leader of the Avengers. You’re the one who still has to learn the importance of following orders. Of discipline and self-control. Like I said. You can drink on your own time.”

“Right, sure," Tony said derisively. He hated how Steve could make him feel, defensive and inferior all at the same time. Like he was trying to get under Tony's skin like Tony got under his. It made Tony want to retaliate, like he had back on the helicarrier, other feelings or no. "Orders make the world go round. I bet you miss having people tell you what to do, don’t you? That has to be what this is all about. SHIELD, oh wait, I mean Hydra, is gone and now no one tells you when to wake up in the morning or wipe your ass.”

Suddenly Steve was standing, both hands braced on the table as he towered over Tony. “What is your problem?” he ground out. “I would never willingly follow orders from Hydra. You know that.”

Tony shrugged, guilt tugging at his chest as he wondered if maybe this time he’d gone too far. Still, he was glad he’d managed to rile Steve up enough to avoid having to deal with any of his emotions or, god forbid, let Steve see any hint of them. He had learned a long time ago that it was better to be hated than to be vulnerable.

Steve sat down again with a huff, pulling the nearest hologram toward him. “Let’s just get this over with.”

Then the lights went out, the holograms fizzling out with them. It didn’t go completely dark—there were tall windows in the office’s west wall, and late afternoon sunlight was still filtering in—but it was shocking nonetheless. Steve looked at Tony like it was his fault, somehow.

“JARVIS?” Tony called.

No answer. Definitely not good. The lights of the nearby city, reactor-powered since the Chitauri incident, twinkled below them. No freak reactor failure, then, either, not that his reactor would ever fail.

A thrill of panic went through him. After Operation Clean Slate he only had two working suits finished and they were both on the upper level of the tower, about thirty floors above them. His breathing started to quicken. Shit, shit, why hadn’t he kept more suits? Suits he could call from a distance, suits on every floor? He was useless, useless…

“Stark. Let’s move,” Steve said, beckoning toward the door. He’d already scooped up his shield from where it had been resting against the wall, and every vestige of annoyance was gone from his face. They were back to being teammates, which was easy. “Whatever this is, we don’t want to be trapped here.”

Tony nodded, forcing himself to _breathe_ and move and hope Steve hadn’t noticed his near-meltdown. There were things no Avenger, and especially not Captain America, should ever know.

“Up,” Tony said tightly, pulling them toward the stairway. Climbing thirty floors on foot would be far from pleasant but JARVIS was compromised, the elevators were definitely a no-go.

He could feel Steve’s hand on his back, a steady presence guiding him forward. It made him feel a little better, then pathetic for feeling better. The hand disappeared after a moment anyway.

Tony forced himself to keep breathing and took them around the corner to the nearest full length stairwell and darted into it, Steve close behind him. They tore up the steps taking two at a time. It wasn’t long before Tony was gasping, while Steve bounded upward easily. Still, Tony didn’t slow down, focused totally on getting where he had to go. Floor 82. The nearest suit was on Floor 82. Twenty more to go… ten… five… three… two… one…

He burst out into the hallway, doubling over as his lungs—weakened as they were on a good day by scar tissue left over from the reactor—refused to keep bringing him oxygen. He felt Steve’s hand on his shoulder again, steadying him, but pushed him off as he regained his breath enough to straighten up. Steve didn’t care that much about him. Not really. “This way,” he gasped, and tugged Steve toward the upper lab and landing pad where he kept the Mark 45.

With the exception of a gauntlet, which was sitting on the lab bench for some minor detailing, the suit was resting behind a door in a small alcove on the other side of the room. Tony threw up his arms in the gesture that would call the armor. The gauntlet he’d been working on was the first to arrive, closing around his right hand with a comforting mechanical noise.

His relief didn’t last long, as two things became obvious.

The rest of the armor wasn’t following, knocking ineffectually against something behind the door.

And he and Steve weren’t alone.

The figures swarmed out from around corner that led to the other wing of the upper lab. There were at least a dozen, dressed in drab grays and masks, and carrying an impressive array of weaponry. Reflexively, Tony glanced at the barrel of each one, checking for the distinctive _STARK INDUSTRIES_ label. Small comfort. Wasn’t there.

Tony didn’t waste any more time in firing his repulsor, and the first intruder went down just as Steve’s shield zinged across the room and took two others. Their argument forgotten for the moment, they fought with their usual effectiveness, taking down several men in the course of seconds.

Then Tony saw something small and metallic lodge itself in Steve’s chest right over the heart. His first thought was that a sedative dart was useless given Steve’s resistance to drugs, but then Steve’s eyes flashed a chilly, glowing blue before fading back to their normal color and Tony realized it was so much worse. Steve’s shield bounced back to him but he didn’t throw it again, instead standing rigidly. Then he dropped it with a clang.

Tony froze when Steve did, his repulsor still aimed at mass of intruders, his mind churning. He couldn’t fight them all off without Steve’s help, not without the rest of the suit. And Steve was clearly down for the count. Even if Tony didn’t know what glowing blue eyes meant (and God, did he), Steve’s unnatural stillness, and the voluntary loss of his shield, spoke volumes. That meant Tony had two options. Fight—not likely to work—or run—leaving Steve at the intruders’ mercy.

Easy choice.

He fired at another intruder, and another. They both went down before a voice—one of the masked goons near the back—called out in an accented voice, “Rogers! Stop him.”

Tony fired again but suddenly Steve was between him and the goons, blocking his shot. His eyes looked totally normal, apologetic even.

“Steve,” Tony said, not sure what to do as Steve positioned himself right in front of his repulsor. Mind controlled or not, a point blank shot to the chest was more than even Steve could bounce back from, and he couldn’t—

“Incapacitate him,” the goon in the back ordered.

Steve grabbed Tony’s gauntleted hand in one of his own and his bare forearm in the other. His face was grim, emotion warring behind his eyes, but he didn’t stop. He brought his hands together in an abrupt motion.

Tony heard the bone snap before he felt it. And then, shit, he felt it, pain pulsing from the new joint in his arm just above the wrist. The gauntlet was still on his hand, and it felt hard and cold through his shirt as he clutched his arm instinctively to his chest.

Steve wrestled his arm back into his grasp and pulled the gauntlet off roughly, making Tony cry out, then tossed it to the floor beside his shield.

“Stark is incapacitated,” Steve said.

The goons seemed satisfied. Tony could only stare in horror as they surrounded him, wondering how the hell things had gone so bad so fast. Together, he and Steve should have been able to deal with a bunch of whoever-these-guys-were handily… except that was all predicated on Tony having his armor and Steve being on his side, because clearly, _clearly_ , this had not gone so well.

One of the goons came up from behind him and tugged his arms behind him (good for another strangled yell), then cuffed his wrists behind his back. His broken arm seared with pain, pain rolling out from the break and spreading fire through his arm. Tony bit his lip to keep from crying out again, tasted blood, and stared at Steve in disbelief.

Steve had been compromised. Steve, the best man he knew in every sense of the word, had been taken over just like that. He thought about how he'd accused Steve of loving to follow orders and wondered if there was a such thing as Karma after all. Except this was far more a nightmare for Steve than it was for him, being forced to do the bidding of evil men. Tony had known that, too, when he’d been running his mouth about Hydra. Somehow, everything he'd said had seemed far more innocuous then.

He felt a pinch in his neck, and everything went black.

* * *

The pain was the first thing that broke through the comfortable blankness of unconsciousness. His head hurt. His arm _really_ hurt. Tony’s first thought was hangover, but that didn’t quite fit. He’d barely been drinking at all since Iron Man (well, relative to _before_ ), and he remembered being with Steve, who didn’t drink, though there had been something about a bar. Also, hangover really didn’t explain the arm.

He blinked hazily, an unfamiliar room coming into view. More sensory input was both a good thing and a bad thing, as it told him he was somewhere he had never been before, but also brought with it a wave of nausea, an increased stabbing just behind his right eye, the awareness that his mouth felt like it had been lined with nasty-tasting cotton.

He had to focus. He was somewhere he’d never been before, and his memory was all wonky because… drugs, right. A fight. Someone had shot Steve with a dart that made his eyes glow blue, then Steve had broken his arm.

God. What a day.

Now Tony was crumpled on the floor of a white-walled cell a little smaller than most of the closets at the Tower, his face pressed into the white linoleum floor and his knees curled up toward him. His arms were still cuffed behind his back. Small blessings—he could only imagine what the pain would be like if he’d landed on top of them. He couldn’t see his right arm very well, but he’d broken enough bones to know exactly what it would look like. A useless limb twice its normal size mottled with deep blue and black bruising. Assuming he’d been out a while, which, if the pounding in his head was any indication, he had.

He forced himself to focus again. Nothing he could do about the arm now. He had to get up and figure out where he was, and how the hell he was going to get out and save Steve. That was the most important thing.

First step. Get up. Easier said than done, sprawled on his stomach with his legs half folded beneath him and his arms pinned behind his back. He managed to turn more fully onto his side, then rotate his legs under him so he was kneeling. From there he braced his shoulder against the white-tiled wall and shimmied up to a standing position. He slipped a little at the end and banged his back and arms against the wall. The pain nearly whited him out but he managed to stay standing, breathing past the pulsing agony and the nausea and the damn indignity of it all.

The cell was so featureless as to make an examination of it almost unnecessary. White tiled floor, white tiled walls, white ceiling. The door was made of a brushed metal and took up most of one of the narrower walls. Tony walked unsteadily around the perimeter, but there didn’t seem to be any hidden doors or slots for food or anything else. Knocking his shoulder against the door confirmed that it was firmly in place, no give in the hinges or the bolt, not that Tony had been expecting any. A small dome in the corner of the ceiling was probably a camera, and Tony spent a few minutes leering at it just because he could.

Finally, he eased back to the floor, settling into an awkward kneel with his shoulder resting against the wall. He thought about easing his wrists around his ankles to get his hands in front of him, but quickly discovered that that was a terrible idea.

The minutes ticked by slowly, with nothing to measure them except the throbbing ache in his arm and head, and the fact that he seemed to get thirstier with each passing second. He worried, about himself and about Steve and about how the hell he was going to get them out of this. The cherry on top was the ever-present gnawing of guilt as his mind insisted on replaying every moment of their last conversation.

An eternity later (maybe an hour, maybe three), the bolt moved on the other side of the door with a heavy clank.

Tony scrambled up, heart racing, adrenaline sharpening his senses and dulling the throbbing in his arm.

The door swung open. It was Steve. Just Steve.

Tony could have melted in relief. Just Steve, without an escort to give him orders like he had last night. That probably meant Steve had shaken the mind control and was here to save him. Tony could have laughed. Of course he had. Steve Rogers had basically invented strength of will, and for all he talked about following orders Tony knew he’d disregarded more than one in his day.

Steve strode forward and punched Tony with Mack truck force in the jaw.

Tony dropped like a stone, landing on his ass and falling to his side with a cry as the impact jarred his arm. His ears were ringing, the world spinning dizzily around him. His jaw ached fiercely where Steve’s first had caught him.

“Steve,” he said, because he couldn’t think to say anything else, couldn’t quite fathom what was happening.

That was when the goon from the Tower rounded the corner. Tony recognized the man’s short blonde hair and thick build, though his features had been obscured by a mask the night before. The man smiled and said, “Good, Rogers.”

Steve’s face contorted, a moment. “Please don’t make me do this."

Tony stared up at him, wide-eyed. He’d assumed that, like Barton during the Chitauri incident, Steve had essentially left the building. If, somehow, his Steve, the real Steve, was conscious and aware that he was being forced to do this…

“Hit him again,” the man said. “Make it hurt.”

Steve’s face went blank as Tony instinctively tried to scramble back, hampered as he was by his pinioned arms. There was no point, of course, and Steve covered the distance in an easy stride and lifted Tony by the collar with one hand and shoved him against the wall. Tears sprung to Tony’s eyes as his arm hit the hard tile and he had just enough time to gasp at the pain before another fist swung in to catch him squarely in the gut.

All the air left his lungs and he crumpled back to the floor, gasping and choking and trying not to gag. This was a nightmare.

“I’m sorry,” Steve said, standing there with his arms at his sides and a gross expression of sympathy on his face.

Somehow, that made it worse. It was going to be hard enough getting through this without having Steve’s puppy dog eyes sending shards of sympathy through him. He couldn’t afford to feel _bad_ that Steve was beating the shit out of him, no matter how much he knew it had to be torture for Steve to have to hurt a teammate. (The thought that it was probably easier to hurt _him_ than anyone else wasn’t worth dwelling on.) After all was said and done, sure, but guilt and more confusing feelings would only get in his way now if he were going to find a way to get them out.

Tony spat out the blood that had pooled in his mouth from the first blow, smirking because at least he knew how to get Steve to stop looking at him with anything like affection.

“Fuck off,” he said. Simple, sure, but he’d had enough practice pissing Steve off to know his audience.

Steve’s eyes widened a moment before his face slackened again into an expressionless mask. This time, though, Tony was sure it wasn’t the mechanical blankness of whatever they had controlling him. No, that was pure Steve, clamping down on emotions he didn’t dare show. But what, exactly, he was clamping down on now, Tony wasn’t sure.

Steve just said, “Hydra requires your cooperation.”

Hydra, then. Well, that explained… a little bit, anyway. They had been the ones who had gotten their mitts on the staff after New York. Perhaps they’d been able to simulate the staff’s energy enough to reproduce the mind control effects—though apparently, without the total devotion that the staff had engendered. Steve was following orders, but he’d clearly retained some of himself.

Still, if that were the case…

“Why would a guy with a mind control gun need my cooperation?” Tony asked.

The main Hydra goon chuckled, a good, old-fashioned bad guy chuckle. The two men who had entered on either side of him were taking notes, glancing up at Steve.

“The mind serum is useful for obtaining mechanical cooperation,” Main Hydra Goon said. “I can make Rogers do whatever I want—and I’m pleased to see that even his fondness for you hasn’t created a problem.” (Tony almost snorted at the thought.) “I could make him kill you. I could make him kill himself. However, the serum’s powers are limited. We need not only your obedience, but your creativity. And that is a far more difficult thing to force without resorting to… more conventional means.”

“I’m not building anything for you,” Tony said tiredly, grimacing as another couple of pieces fell into place. He forced a new smirk onto his face, though his lip was swelling where Steve had hit him and it distorted the effect a bit. “You do remember what happened to the last guys who tried, don’t you?”

“The… ‘last guys’ did not have Captain America on their side,” Hydra Goon said. “Nor did they have this.” He produced a small vial of clear liquid out of a jacket pocket, holding it up to let it sparkle in the light. In his other hand he held a needle.

“Yeah, and?” Tony said, watching it nervously. “What’s that?”

“Another little something our labs have concocted,” Hydra Goon said. “This is a truth serum.”

Tony closed his eyes for a moment, reigning in his disappointment. Let loose in a well-stocked lab, he was fairly confident he could find a way to break them out—he’d done more with less in Afghanistan. But deception was necessary for a plan like that.

“Let’s give it a try, shall we?” Hydra Goon said. He stuck the needle in through the bottle seal and filled it with liquid, squirting out a small amount to rid the shot of air bubbles. Then he handed it to Steve. “Rogers. Administer the serum.”

This time, Steve swallowed but his face didn’t change. He took the needle steadily and advanced on Tony again.

“Please don’t try to move,” he said, fixing Tony with that azure gaze that would have made him squirm for entirely different reasons under any other circumstances. “If you move, this will only be harder on you.”

“Screw that,” Tony muttered, and slid backward against the wall. Hell if he was going down without a fight, or at least a flight, no matter how pointless it was.

Steve caught up to him easily and spun him around by the shoulders, pressing his front against the wall. Tony’s cheek smashed into the cold white tile, leaving a thin smear of blood behind. He tried to pull away but a strong hand closed around his pounding wrist and squeezed _oh god fuck shit fuck shit_ he wasn’t going anywhere.

He barely registered the sting of the needle as it slid into his other arm, though the serum felt almost pleasantly cool as it slid through his veins.

As Steve let go of his arm and the pain receded, leaving only endorphins behind, he had to fight the absurd urge to laugh. Steve, champion of self-control, who believed Tony hopelessly undisciplined—a puppet. And Tony, who’d made sure that no one could see the simplest truth—that he _liked_ Steve, that if nothing else he wanted him to be his damned friend—forced to tell nothing but the truth. It wasn’t funny. But that didn’t stop him from giving in to delirious laughter as Steve grabbed him by the arm and dragged him bodily out of the cell and into a small dim room with a small chair and a swinging lightbulb and rows of drawers he didn’t want to think about.

Steve just watched him sadly. In the end, it was the guilt and worry in his eyes that made Tony’s insane laughter die out.

It didn’t matter what Steve thought of him, or what unreciprocated feelings Tony might have had for Steve. Steve was compromised, and that meant it was on Tony to get them both out. And he’d be damned if he didn’t find a way.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: this one gets pretty dark, and involves explicit descriptions of torture.

Tony was tied to a chair. No, that wasn’t quite right.

Tony was tied to a chair, because Steve had tied him to a chair.

Steve had tried to resist. At every step of the way, he’d put all the force of his will into _not_ doing what they wanted, not following the instructions his “handler”—a Hydra soldier who had yet to provide a name--gave him.

Each time he failed. It didn’t matter what they wanted him to do. Stand up and walk across the room, or beat his friend to a pulp. He did it.

If they even were friends. Steve was honestly unsure. Since the Battle of New York, Steve had seen that his initial assessment of Tony was wrong. That under all the bluster and irreverence, there was a good man, a man who had been willing to sacrifice his own life to save millions. Steve had resolved to get to know him better. But the first thing Tony did after the battle was pack his bags and move to California, with no explanation but “I’m done with New York,” and by extension, with all of the Avengers (except Bruce, who had gotten a special invitation to join him). It didn’t seem to be that Tony didn’t care—he’d thrown an incomprehensible amount of money at rebuilding the city—but the meaning of the move seemed clear enough to Steve. Tony Stark wanted nothing more to do with the Avengers. And so Steve kept his distance, and kept Tony out of the Winter Soldier mess, not that there had been much time to call him in. Once Tony returned to the East Coast, however, Steve had renewed his efforts to kindle a friendship. Bafflingly, all of his attempts were met with derision or downright hostility from Stark, and the nicer Steve tried to be, the more difficult Stark became. Steve had resolved to keep trying for at least a little while, but he wasn’t a fool. For whatever reason, Tony Stark didn’t like him very much.

Of course, none of that mattered now. Tony was in danger, a civilian, and far too vulnerable without his suit. Friends or not, it was Steve’s responsibility to get him out. He’d already failed to stop him from being captured in the first place.

Tony had barely stifled a yelp when Steve tied his cuffed wrists tightly to the back of the chair with a length of rope. But Steve had done it, just like that.

There were a few times in his life that Steve had come close to hating himself. As a small boy, left out and ridiculed, he’d resented his weak sickly body and the unfairness of it all. After Bucky had… after Bucky, he’d been furious at his own failure to be fast enough, or smart enough, to have saved him.

But this was the first time Steve had ever truly hated himself for something he’d done. He almost wished that the “mind serum”, and whatever of the tesseract’s power imbued it, had given Hydra total control. As it was, he felt exactly like himself, even as his body acted out their heinous orders. It was torture. It was hell.  

Steve’s handler was a short, blonde man who seemed to have made an effort to fulfill every Hydra stereotype available—blonde hair, a lilting German accent, and a total lack of compassion. He stood in the doorway behind Steve with his arms crossed. His two cronies, men with clipboards, watched disinterestedly.

“It is time to begin,” the handler announced.

Stark snorted. “Let me guess. I'm not going to like this part.” His voice was ragged and scared, and not at all flippant like he’d probably been aiming for.

The handler didn't respond, instead instructing Steve, “Do not move from your position or speak. If Stark attempts anything, stop him.”

Steve obeyed immediately, stiffening like a statue beside Tony’s chair. Totally powerless. Frustration burned like hot acid in his belly. Tony needed him, and all he could do was— _nothing_.

The handler gave him Tony a pale, lizard-like smile. “Mr. Stark. It is time to test the truth serum. Let us start with something simple. Where do you live?”

“New York,” Tony said. “Currently.”

“And before?” the handler asked.

“Malibu."

“Why did you leave?” the handler asked.

“Terrorist blew up my house. My fault.”

“Excellent. Now tell me something about your childhood.”

Tony’s eyes flashed but he said, “Dad drank a lot.”

The two men with clipboards scratched more notes onto their pads.

The handler looked pleased at how much Tony had offered. “Excellent. Now, we shall try something more difficult. Tell me a secret that you do not wish your comrade Mr. Rogers to know.”

Tony blanched and looked at the floor. He seemed to be fighting something back but the words came anyway. “Panic attacks. I’ve had panic attacks since the nuke. Nightmares, flashbacks. Why I left. I think… I have PTSD.”

PTSD. Shell shock. Steve had seen plenty of men afflicted during the war, and he was no stranger to bad dreams or restless nights himself. Something in him twisted uncomfortably at the thought of Tony going through it alone. Did he think that Steve wouldn’t understand? That Steve would think poorly of him, or want him off the team?

Steve tried to meet Tony’s eyes, but Tony stared stubbornly at the floor, his face blank. He was no doubt too practiced to blush, but he radiated shame nonetheless. It made Steve want to take him by the shoulders and look into his eyes and make Tony understand that Steve thought no less of him. That he knew exactly how much strength it took to keep fighting. But that conversation would have to wait until they were both free again. 

The handler smiled. “Excellent. Now. Will you agree to build Iron Man suits for us?”

“No,” Tony said flatly, glaring up at the handler again.

“We would like to see the suits powered by the tesseract energy,” the handler went on. “I ask you again. Will you build them for us?”

“I said _no_ ," Tony snapped. 

“Then I’m afraid we must find a way change your mind,” the Hydra agent said, false regret layering his tone. “Rogers. Make him scream."

The pit dropped out of Steve's stomach. Tony finally met his eyes, but his expression was unreadable. Warning something, but warning what Steve couldn’t fathom. Tony had to know that he didn’t want to do this. That he would do anything to not have to do this.

Then, like someone else had control of his body, Steve stepped forward and punched Stark in the jaw. Stark’s head snapped back and he grunted. When he swung his head back it was to spit a mouthful of blood onto the floor. His eyes were unfocused when he caught Steve’s again.

Still challenging him. A second later, Steve realized why. Stark hadn’t cried out. He wasn’t going to.

“Stark,” Steve murmured.

Then Steve drove his fist into Stark’s ribs, hard enough to feel a crack under his knuckles. Tony curled inward, his body reacting an instant before the low groan tore from him. But he didn’t scream, dark eyes flashing defiance.

“Damn it, Tony,” Steve said. If Tony would just cry out he could stop.

Tony shook his head, ever so slightly, and Steve caught an echo of something he did understand— _I can do this all day_.

In moment before his body moved again— _make him scream_ —Steve felt an unexpected rush of affection for the man, for his stubbornness and willingness to stand up for what was right. This was the real Stark, the Stark he wanted to know better. This was a man worth protecting.

But it was useless. Make him scream. With no will of his own Steve knelt beside Tony and wrapped his hand around Tony’s ribcage, his thumb on the rib that had cracked under from his blow. He squeezed.

Tony’s breath quickened and he bit back on a scream, clenching his teeth to muffle the noise. Steve gritted his teeth and kept digging his thumb in until the rib creaked and bent inward. As Tony writhed Steve's eyes filled with involuntary tears. He'd have given anything to trade places with Tony just then.

Steve pulled his hand back quickly and drove his fist into the spot again.

The abruptness of the blow startled a cry out of Tony. Steve stumbled back panting. He could handle pain, whatever they could throw at him, without breaking. But this, this was impossible. He staggered away from Tony’s chair, bent over, and vomited on the floor until nothing was left.

The handler’s nose crinkled in disgust. “Up,” he ordered, his tone admonishing. Steve lurched back to his feet, wiping his mouth on his sleeve. “We are only getting started.”

Steve found Tony’s eyes. Tony was breathing in shallow pants, his face a picture of betrayal.

“I’m sorry,” Steve choked out.

“Shut up, Cap," Tony said.

“Again, Rogers,” the handler ordered him. “Make him scream.”

Helplessly Steve slammed his fist into Tony’s side and Tony grunted, curling in on himself before his broken arm tugged him back. Steve hit him again. And again. Trying to resist did nothing, _nothing_. No matter how he meant to stand still or punch the floor instead or drop to the ground. He strained as hard as he ever had in his life, harder than he had at boot camp trying to eke just a little more out of his frail, asthmatic body, harder than he had fighting off an alien horde. He hit Tony again, and again, and again. 

It didn’t take long for Tony to cry out a second time, instinctively trying to pull away from Steve.

This time, the handler simply looked bored. “Keep going.”

Steve did.

He drove his fist into Tony’s chest again, and again, and again, and again. When he heard more ribs crack, he moved on to the other side (couldn’t risk sending a rib through Tony’s lung), and did the same thing again. Then he grabbed Stark’s broken arm and pulled it outward until he howled, until his shoulder popped out of his socket and the entire limb hung crooked and wrong in his bonds. He dug his fingers into the soft flesh of the separated shoulder. He _kept going_ , beating every inch of Tony’s body that wouldn’t kill or cripple him—he had that much control, at least. Sometimes the handler asked for something specific. Sometimes he handed Steve a tool from one of the metal drawers lining the room—hammers, pliers, screws, a blowtorch, a knife. Mostly, though, he seemed to enjoy making Steve use his own hands to inflict the pain. Hours later, Steve was cupping Tony’s hand to break his little finger but the handler said, “Stop.”

Steve dropped Tony’s hand like a hot coal. There were tears he hadn’t noticed running down his own face. He was numb and horrified all at once. 

“Not the hands,” the handler said. “He will need those.”

Steve swallowed the lump in his throat and forced himself to really look at Tony again, to see the damage he’d done. Tony was slumped in his bonds, his face lined by what had become a permanent grimace. Dark bruises blossomed on every inch of visible skin, and the dark T-shirt he’d been wearing for their meeting in the Tower was all but shredded. Blood seeped from a dozen wounds. Steve thought he’d never get the sound of Tony’s cries to stop ringing in his head. He wanted to throw up again but his body felt too distant and frozen even for that, like he were encased in the ice again.

The handler hummed appreciatively. “Mr. Stark, your attention.”

Tony’s swung his head up slowly to fix the handler with a bleary glare. Broken, but not beaten. Steve felt the renewed burn of tears in his throat as Tony resisted still.

“Mr. Stark, I repeat my question: will you build Iron Man suits for us?”

Tony whispered something inaudible, his lips barely moving. Fear lanced through Steve’s gut. He’d tried so hard to do nothing that would hurt Tony permanently, but if Tony couldn’t even speak…

The handler leaned forward with an impatient, “Louder, Mr. Stark.”

As soon as the handler’s face was a few inches from his, Tony sneered and spat blood right onto the man’s cheek. “I said you can go fuck yourself,” Tony said. His voice was breathy, like it hurt to breathe, but strong. “I’ll never, ever, build anything for you. It doesn’t matter what you do to me.”

“Hm,” was all the handler said, leaning back and dabbing the blood from his face with a handkerchief (because of course he had a handkerchief).

Tony grunted in pain and closed his eyes again.

“Very well,” the handler said. “We shall resume again tomorrow. Rogers, take Mr. Stark to his quarters and see that his injuries are tended. Supplies will be provided. Do _not_ let him escape, or leave the room or even your sight, under any circumstances. If he attempts to overpower you, stop him and confine him. Guards will be posted outside the door.”

And with that, the handler handed Steve a small key and stepped back, giving Steve the space to unlock Tony’s cuffs and release him from the chair. The change in orders was so abrupt that Steve stood, stunned, before gladly moving to follow them. When Tony flinched away, Steve swallowed back another wave of guilt and gingerly unlocked the cuffs, pulling Tony’s wrists—rubbed raw by the cuffs—away from them. Tony whined slightly as Steve moved his mangled arm, but that was all. 

As soon as Tony’s arms were free he slumped sideways, unable to hold himself up. Steve barely managed to catch him, the pressure of Steve’s arms against Tony's chest eliciting another low groan. Steve lifted gently, taking Tony’s weight in his arms. Tony nearly choked on the pain but after a few agonizing seconds managed to get his feet beneath him, leaning against Steve’s chest. His skin felt hot like he had a fever.

“I’m sorry,” Steve murmured uselessly. 

“Just get me out of here,” Tony muttered back, clinging to Steve with his good arm. The other hung uselessly at his side.

It wasn’t a command he had to follow, but Steve was glad to carry it through. He followed the handler to the room they’d set up for Tony, a small windowless box with a bed and a cabinet and a lamp and not much else. A thin gray blanket was folded up on the edge of the bed. The carpet was a faded dark red, the walls gray. As promised, medical supplies had been laid out on a small table for him, along with a jug of water and a plate of stale-looking peanut butter sandwiches. Stark stumbled through the doorway, Steve’s grip around his chest the only thing keeping him on his feet. When Steve guided him to the bed, Tony sunk bonelessly onto it and closed his eyes.

“Stark?” Steve asked, then frowned. “Tony?”

“What,” Tony said, his voice barely audible. This time, it didn’t seem to be a ruse. He was breathing shallowly and every line of his body was taut with pain.

“I’m sorry,” Steve said again, because he couldn’t help it. “How—how do you feel?”

He knew it was an asinine question as soon as the words left his mouth, but it didn’t stop Tony from answering. “Horrible. Weak. Thirsty. Everything hurts. Chest and arm _really_ hurt. I’m terrified. I wish I were anywhere else, except maybe that wormhole. I can’t stop telling the truth and for fuck’s sake, if you ask me how I feel again while I’m under this I’ll—well, I won’t like it. Can’t even—threaten you properly.” He broke off, his breaths turning shallow again with pain.

“Tony, I’m s—“ Steve began, before stopping himself because they were far, far past _sorry_ and it hadn’t helped the first hundred times anyway. “I’ll get you some water. Then I'll see what I can do for your wounds.” 

“Mm,” Tony grunted.

Steve poured a glass of water and propped Tony up as well as he could on the two thin pillows they’d given him, bracing him with one arm while he held the cup to Tony’s cracked and swollen lips. He didn’t miss the way Tony flinched when he moved too quickly, but he ignored it determinedly. He was finally, finally able to do the one thing he’d wanted to do all day—help. The odd warmth of affection returned and he had to say something.

“That was impressive. Standing up to him. Not giving in. I know this is—hard for you.”

Tony drank for a few seconds, grimacing with each swallow. “Understatement. Wasn’t a question, though. I’ll never build those octopus-loving bastards anything. Not worth it.”

“What’s not worth it?” Steve frowned.

Tony gave him a withering glance but answered, “Me. My life. Wasn’t worth it in Afghanistan, it isn’t worth it now.” He broke off with a grimace, his good hand grasping for purchase in the bedsheet.

Steve felt a little like the bottom had dropped out of his stomach. He’d seen Stark sacrifice himself before, knew that Iron Man had been born when Tony had refused to build weapons for a different set of terrorists. But hearing it put like that, like Tony truly didn’t think he mattered… it wasn’t right. 

He waited until the pain had receded, then said quietly, “It’s still impressive, Tony.”

Tony grunted.

Steve swallowed back his emotion, and said in a mechanical voice that didn’t quite feel like his, “I have to tend to your wounds now. I should start with your arm.”

“Sure. Get it over with,” Tony says.

Steve nodded and turned to survey the medical supplies they’d left him. The medical kit was fairly well-stocked, and between his old battlefield training and his new SHIELD training Steve was confident enough that he could do what he had to. It wouldn’t be easy on Tony, though—the one thing missing from the Hydra medkit was painkillers.

Steve gingerly cut away Tony's shirt, then rotated his arm until it was in place and used his strength to shove the bone back into the socket. Tony cried out raggedly, like he had before. But this was different, Steve told himself. This was necessary. He had to believe that.

He moved to Tony’s arm next. His forearm was swollen, deep bruising surrounded a joint that definitely didn’t belong between his wrist and elbow. Steve had to shove down the sickening memory of how easily it had cracked under his hands. He laid out Tony’s arm on the bed as gently as he could. Tony clenched his jaw, his breath hitching, and threw his good arm over his face. He didn’t scream again when Steve set it, but he let out a muffled groan and turned his head away to bury it even further in the crook of his elbow.

“Tony? Are you all right?” Steve asked automatically.

All he got back was a muffled, “Fuck no, and stop asking me that.”

From there it was easier to set Tony’s arm in the splint and wrap it, and fit a sling around his shoulder. 

“Thanks," Tony said, his eyes shiny with tears. "That actually feels better.”

“I’m glad,” Steve said honestly.

After that he moved on to cleaning and bandaging the cuts and burns, wrapping Tony’s ribs, and checking for any additional serious damage he hadn’t noticed before. It was oddly intimate, as Steve ran his hands over Tony's exposed chest and arms and legs to search for unseen knots or fractures. Surprisingly, Stark didn't comment on that either. Next was a mildly awkward trip to the small attached bathroom, during which Steve did his best to keep Tony on his feet without, well, looking. Steve had lost his sense of privacy in an army camp long ago, but that wasn’t the case for Tony. When he was done, he helped Tony back to the bed where he eased back with a groan.

After the horror of the day, it felt good to finally do something _right_.

He took one of the sandwiches and handed another to Tony, and for a few minutes they chewed in silence. Steve wanted to apologize again, to ask Tony how he was doing, or even to ask him about the shell shock he'd admitted to earlier. Another restless part of him wanted to know what Tony thought of Steve now, if he’d ever forgive him for what he'd done or what he'd likely have to do again tomorrow. But those things had to be high on the list of subjects Tony would not want to discuss while dosed up with a truth serum. And for all his curiosity, Steve would not violate him in that way. He’d done enough.

“This is weird, right?” Tony said finally, around a bite of sandwich.

“Weird?” Steve echoed, not sure what part of the situation Tony was referring to and not wanting to guess wrong.

“This,” Tony gestured vaguely at Steve with his good arm, then winced and brought it back close to his chest. “Having you torture me all day, then locking us in here and making you my nursemaid. I don’t get what they’re playing at.”

“I don’t know either,” Steve said, then had to add, “but I’m pretty glad they did. I want to make this up to you, in however small a way.”

“Look, Cap,” Tony sighed. “Before you say anything else. This isn’t your fault. And I’m telling the truth, see? Can’t help it. I know this isn’t your fault, and while being this close to you after everything today is making me jumpy, I... I don't blame you. Wasn’t Barton’s fault and it’s not your fault.”

“It feels like my fault,” Steve admitted. “Mind tricks aside…I should never have let them get take me or you in the first place. And I should be able to fight it.”

“Steve, it’s—“ Tony shook his head, grimacing. “Sorry. I can’t—handle this, Cap. Barely holding it together here. Can’t deal with your guilt too. I'm sorry. Wish I could—lie.”

Steve stiffened like he’d been electrocuted. “No, Tony, I’m sorry. Of course. This isn’t about me.”

Tony took a shaky, shallow breath. “Can we just focus.”

“You’re right. This is strange,” Steve said, and watched Tony relax ever so slightly at the change in subject. “Hydra must have some game here. Obviously they’re not done with either of us. They must want you to… to like me, or something.”

“I always like you,” Tony mumbled.

“What?” Steve asked before he could help himself.

Tony glared at him, but elaborated, “I always like you. Always have. Looked up to you since I was a kid. Wish we were…better friends.  Just want to…get to know you better. Be…closer. Maybe…be more.” As he spoke, his voice got lower and lower and his chin tipped closer to his chest until his beard was almost resting between his collar bones.

Steve felt his own cheeks heating, and wanted simultaneously to pretend he’d heard nothing and also to make Tony explain everything. But Tony looked as embarrassed as Steve had ever seen him, and for all his curiosity—for all he was probably this close to answers he wanted since the Battle of New York—it wasn't his place to ask.

Instead he returned to an easier subject. “So, what we know. Hydra wants you to—to feel comfortable with me, and we don’t know why. Maybe they think it will be harder for you to deal with me hurting you if there’s an interlude like this. They could be trying to keep you from being desensitized to it.” Or they were trying to keep Steve from being desensitized. He didn’t say that part.

“Sure. Makes sense,” Tony said. He paused, grinding his teeth against another way of pain. He added more loudly, as if trying to drown it out, “We need a plan. Get us out of here.”

Steve raised his eyebrows. “I can’t move. You can’t lie. Did you have something in mind?”

“Not exactly,” Tony said. His voice was still low but he sounded thoughtful now, like his mouth would have been running truth serum or no. “I’m useless like this. Can’t count on you doing anything either, not unless we break their power over you. So that’s what we have to do. Question is, how. We know ‘cognitive recalibration’ worked for Barton. Same energy field, should be the same thing here.”

“How sure are you that it’s the same?” Steve asked. “My eyes aren’t that blue. I still feel like myself.”

“Could mean it’ll be easier to break,” Tony said, chewing on the inside of his cheek. “Not like we have a lot of other options. Problem is, I can’t exactly plan on overpowering you anytime soon. Couldn’t on a good day. Have to find another way to knock you out.”

Suddenly, it seemed obvious.

“Build what they’re asking,” Steve said.

“What?” Tony asked.

“Build the suits,” Steve said again. “Pretend to break and go along with it. Whatever they ask for. You might not be able to program them to do anything they shouldn’t, but there’s heavy machinery involved, right? You could make the suits work but aim one at me, or have me as your assistant and put me in the way of some moving part. Or as long as I’m allowed to assist you, I could get in its way myself. With the serum, even a pretty bad head injury won’t put me out long, and as soon as I’m free I’ll get us both out of here. I can promise you that.”

“I can’t lie,” Tony reminded him, though he sounded almost hopeful.

“You wouldn’t have to,” Steve said. “Just tell them you’ll do it. That will be the truth. Unless they specifically order me to stay away from the suits, I’ll be able to do whatever I have to do. I know factories are a lot safer than they used to be, but accidents must happen—they might not even realize it was planned.”

“They do happen,” Tony said. “Hardest part would be to make it convincing, and not to spill the beans as soon as I agree to it. You might have noticed, I don’t exactly have a much of a filter right now.”

“But you—you must have some control over that,” Steve said, a strange energy overtaking him now that they finally had something to work with. A possible way out. A way to get Tony away from here and make sure nothing like this ever happened to him again. “The serum doesn’t make you say every thought. It couldn’t possibly, or you’d never be able to stop talking.”

“That’s true,” Tony said cautiously. “Plenty of things I could have said to you today.”

Steve consciously didn't pry. 

“It could work,” Tony decided, pinching the bridge of his nose. “It could. Assuming a whole lot went right. Assuming they're not listening in right now.” Something in his face shuttered suddenly. “Did they put you up to this?”

“Hydra?” Steve said. “No. Of course not.”

“There’s no ‘of course not’ here,” Tony said tightly. “They’re in your brain. They’re in mine.”

“No. You’re right,” Steve said, ashamed again. It was absurd to ask Tony to trust him after all he’d done, but he had no choice. “I swear, Tony. This is all me. Hydra can control what I do—not what I say. I’m sure of that. And I want to get us both the hell out of here.”

Tony gazed at him, suspicious. Then he let out a shallow breath. “You know what, fine. Best plan we’ve got. If you’re looking to screw me over… well, I guessed I’ll get screwed.”

They were both silent for a few seconds. Steve looked at Tony, impressed again yet by the other man’s strength. Their plan was far from fool-proof, and if it failed, Tony would suffer for it. But Tony didn’t look determined, or even worried. He just looked…tired.

“So, I agree to build suits for them. Wait long enough to make it look convincing. Won’t be a lie ‘cause I’ll actually do it, on the condition I get to keep you on as an assistant. Once it’s underway I put you somewhere you can…knock yourself out,” Tony summarized.

“That's it,” Steve said.

“Awesome,” Tony said, closing his eyes. “Gotta ask—were you planning on using this bed? Didn’t think I’d be able to sleep but honestly, I’m exhausted.” He chuckled weakly, then winced. “Honestly. Guess you knew that already.”

Steve stood up from the side of the bed he’d been sitting on fast enough to make Tony bounce slightly. “It’s all yours. I don’t think I can sleep anyway. I’m supposed to keep an eye on you, remember?”

“I remember,” Tony muttered.

Steve unfolded the blanket on the foot of the bed and draped it over Tony, who glared before giving in and closing his eyes again, shivering slightly. Steve cleared Tony’s plate—most of his sandwich uneaten—and his own empty one from the side of the bed and set it on the table. Then he turned off the lights. He was still following orders, he told himself. Tony might be a dim blob, but he was still in Steve’s sight.

Eventually, Tony’s breathing evened out. Steve sat in the lone chair at the kitchen table, watching as he’d been commanded. A moment of peace in a nightmare. In the silence broken only by Tony's slow breaths, Steve thought about what Tony had said… about them being friends, or more. Whatever that meant. The twenty-first century was still a maze of social norms and expectations he didn’t quite understand, a foreign land with a different language and a culture he had to learn. However Tony meant it, though, Steve couldn’t help but feel glad. Maybe after all this was over, they could finally get to know each other.

Suddenly, Tony shifted fitfully in his sleep, moaning softly. Steve went over to him, leaning over his bed to better make out his features in the dim light. Even in sleep, Tony’s face was pinched in fear or pain or both, and he was moving against the pillow like something was after him.

Steve reached adjusted the blanket over Tony’s shoulders, then hesitated a moment before smoothing out his short, sweat-stiffened hair. Tony stilled, turning his head into Steve’s hand like he’d found comfort there. It didn’t make up for what Steve had done to him—far from it—nor could it assuage the mountain of guilt Steve was pretty sure would never stop weighing on him. But it seemed to mean something to Tony, and that was what really mattered. Steve ran his fingers through Tony’s hair again, smoothing it rhythmically until Tony was sleeping peacefully again, and until the tense lines on his face smoothed out. Then Steve went back to his chair to continue his vigil.

He only prayed that tomorrow would go as planned.


	3. Chapter 3

Sleep came easy. It didn’t stick around. As the night wore on, Tony found himself being pulled into wakefulness by a dozen things. The pain in his arm and chest, which stabbed with renewed vigor if he so much as shifted in his sleep. The throbbing in his head. The chill of the room, which the thin blanket did little to stave off. The ever-present worry because they had a plan, but it was terrible (not that he could think of anything better), and if Tony didn’t deliver they would both be in trouble and it would be his fault. Oh yeah, and had he mentioned the pain? A few times he imagined that Steve had been at his bedside, coaxing him back into sleep. But that was ridiculous. It was much more likely that after everything, his beleaguered brain was giving in to a couple of those buried fantasies.

By the time morning came, or what he assumed was morning because the lights went on in the hall, spilling brightness into the room through the cracks around the door, Tony felt little more rested than he’d been the night before.

Steve was still sitting at the small table, watching him, and the thought of it made Tony want to dig a hole and climb into it. After the endless hours of pain, of Steve’s dead-eyed, looming presence meaning nothing but punishment, he’d expected it to be hard to trust him again. It hadn’t been. Steve’s sincerity, the gentleness in how he’d cared for Tony, the fondness in his gaze … it was everything Tony had wanted _before_. Having a taste of it now made Tony feel at once grateful and embarrassed and annoyingly needy. Which would have been fine if he could keep it all to himself, but the truth serum had seen to that. Now that Steve knew how he really felt about him, there would be no going back to the way things had been before. Not to mention Steve was also now privy to his second most guarded secret, and there was no chance Steve would ever trust him again after learning that Tony was still spazzing out about New York--so much for being teammates if not friends. The best thing to do would be to push Steve away again before Steve had to do it himself. To remind himself that Steve would have treated  anyone that gently, after being forced to torture them for hours. That he hadn’t been looking at Tony like that because he felt anything for him particularly. He had to keep telling himself that because if he didn’t, the little insidious voice of hope would appear in the back of his mind, reminding him that Steve had been proud of him, and smiled at him, and had been patient and gentle and warm.

Steve shifted at the table and Tony just barely kept from flinching away as a shock of fear stole through him. Oh yeah, there was that too. As the rest of him warred with the idea of having told Steve too much (or maybe not enough), his primordial lizard brain still saw Steve and said _threat_.

Feelings. They were the worst.

“Hey, Tony,” Steve said softly.

Ignoring Steve was the best way to ignore his emotions, which he was going to need to do to pull off his part of their plan. The hardest part would be pretending to break without giving up the plan, given that he only tenuous control over what he said. He’d also have to hold out against more torture for at least a little while, because after his display yesterday the Hydra agents probably wouldn’t buy that he’d cracked overnight. And that was assuming the room wasn’t bugged and they didn’t know it all already, which only seemed plausible because they hadn’t busted down the door to punish them for it yet.

Tony forcibly gave up that train of thought. Wasn’t like he had another choice. It was time to focus, now, on the most important thing. Getting up.

Sitting up turned out to be far harder than it had any right to be. His right arm was totally useless, a sensitive mess of pain strapped close to his body. Moving his left arm to brace himself set off the pain of a dozen cuts and bruises and all the things in his torso his arm was apparently connected to. Tightening the muscles of his abdomen to bring himself up made pain explode in his ribs like a dozen alarms going off at once, and new agony rocketed through his bad arm as he reflexively tried to find his balance. He fell back against the pillow and had to brace himself with a couple shallow breaths before starting again. The next time he was expecting the pain and got much further, pushing himself all the way off the pillow—

And then there were strong hands at his back, supporting him carefully while quickly rearranging the two sad pillows behind him to provide as much support as they could. “Better?”

“Yes,” Tony said, because with the serum still in his blood he couldn’t lie. He stolidly ignored the way the warmth of Steve’s touch on his bare back comforted him. There wasn’t a damned thing to feel comfortable about. Not the situation, not their chances for survival, and definitely not _Steve_.

A glass of water was placed in his good hand, and Steve even tried to help him drink it until Tony grabbed it irritably away. He drained it then steeled himself for the next step.

He grabbed the bedframe and swung his legs over the side of the bed. The pain that blossomed anew in his ribs and shoulder and arm and everywhere else was intense, but he gritted his teeth and rode it out. Steve was still hovering, steadying Tony with a hand on his arm. When the pain had receded enough for him to breathe again, Tony grabbed at the nearest thing—Steve—and pulled himself to his feet.

It was bad but not as bad as he’d expected, or maybe he was just getting used to it. He stood frozen as the pain reached a crescendo then started to ebb, clinging to Steve’s shoulder with one hand. God. Steve’s hand was on his back again, rubbing a soothing circle over his shoulder blades. Feeling absurdly like he wanted to cry, Tony brushed him off.

 A few minutes later he was feeling a bit more human, as the injuries that had stiffened up over the night got used to moving again. Building suits like this would be far from fun, but he’d contended with broken bones before and he could do it again. Nothing would ever be worse than building Iron Man in the cave with half his sternum sawed out.

He didn’t have long to appreciate his newfound freedom of movement. The door slammed dramatically open as the blonde Hydra agent appeared flanked by his usual clipboard wielding men. Tony wondered distantly if they’d ever heard of a Starkpad.

“Good. You’re both up,” Main Hydra Goon said curtly. “Rogers. Escort him back to the interrogation room.”

Tony swallowed down a wave of renewed fear as Steve’s hand closed around his good arm again. Though the touch was not much less gentle than it had been a few minutes ago, he could feel the difference in the intent somehow. Like it wasn’t really Steve behind it.

Steve marched him through the hall and back to the room. His chest and arm seared with renewed pain but he managed to keep his face neutral. Hydra Goon was watching, and there was no reason to give the blonde asshole any more insight into what Tony was feeling than the truth serum already did. It didn’t help that being shirtless made him feel, rather illogically, more vulnerable than he had before.

At Hydra Goon’s instruction, Steve sat him down in the same chair as before. Hydra Goon wanted Tony’s hands bound behind his back, so with an extremely apologetic look Steve pulled Tony’s arm from the sling, tossed the sling away, then cuffed Tony’s wrists together behind him and roped them to the slats of the chair like he had before. Each tug on Tony’s arm was agony and by the time Steve was done there were involuntary tears swimming in Tony’s eyes. No good. 

Once he was secured to the chair again, one of the clipboard men returned to jab a needle into his arm. Tony sighed as the coolness of the truth serum soaked into his veins. It was okay. He’d been expecting this. Hadn’t noticed it wear off in the first place, really.

Hydra Goon watched with mild interest. “Have you thought any more about our request, Mr. Stark?”

“Yes,” Tony answered automatically, and managed to bite his tongue before admitting any more of his plan. Coppery blood filled his mouth and he swallowed, hiding his grimace.

“And?”

“And you’re still an asshole,” he said. That much was true.

“I see,” Hydra Goon said, with a smile that made Tony’s gut turn to lead. “And will you build suits for us now?”

“No,” Tony said, relief flooding through him, and bit his tongue again before he could elaborate. He wouldn’t build them _now_. He had to wait to make it seem convincing.

“In that case, I suppose it is time we move on to the…persuasion.”

Tony gritted his teeth and glared, forcing his face to show none of the trepidation he felt. Not only did he have to withstand more torture, he had to have enough presence of mind to keep from spilling the plan, no matter what they did to him. If he didn’t, he and Steve would lost their only chance to escape. This was all about willpower.

But he was Tony Stark. He was made of iron.

Hydra Goon placed something in Steve’s hand. A knife, a thick double-edged one like a person might take fishing. Or so Tony imagined. Fishing had never exactly been his thing. Then the goon leaned forward and said something to Steve too quietly for Tony to hear.

Tony forced himself to keep his breathing even.  While people cutting into him against his will was definitely on the list of things he Did Not Like, there hadn’t been much of it yesterday and so it would be a small respite from never-ending blunt trauma. Much less chance of knocking a loose rib through his lung, if nothing else.

The knife glinted as Steve raised it.

Tony forced himself to meet Steve’s eyes and not flinch away.

His brow furrowed in confusion as Steve kept raising the knife. Up, up until the curved tip was pressed against Steve’s jugular, drawing a tiny bead of blood where it pressed it close to the skin. The bottom dropped out of Tony’s stomach.

“Physical persuasion did not prove very efficient,” Hydra Goon explained smugly. “Today we shall explore other methods. Rogers. Cut yourself.”

His cheeks heating, as if this were something to be ashamed of, Steve moved the blade down to his collarbone and sliced a deep cut. Blood immediately started welling into Steve’s white shirt.

Tony winced. Steve didn't.

“Will you agree to build for us now, or shall I make him continue?” Hydra Goon asked.

“I won’t do it,” Tony said. Steve looked—relieved. Almost as if he’d been waiting for this. As if he thought he deserved it, or thought it was only fair. Tony squinted at him, trying to show his displeasure, but Steve’s expression didn’t change.

“Very well,” Hydra Goon said. “Rogers. Again. Deeper.”

Steve took a breath then drew the knife down his chest, opening a deep score in his pectoral muscle. A muscle in his jaw moved but that was it. Tony’s stomach turned over as blood started to bead out of the deep cut. At least, he thought, it explained why they had sent Steve to take care of him last night. They needed Tony to care what happened to him—their mistake was not realizing that Tony always did.

“Again,” Hydra Goon said. “Keep going.”

Steve cut another line, a small grimace slipping across his face as his flesh split. Then he cut another. And another. Before long his torso was criss-crossed with deep, seeping cuts, his shirt more red than white. Tony squirmed, wincing internally each time Steve drew the blade across his skin again, but had stopped showing anything on his face. He’d given in to the physical pain the day before, but he was far more practiced at hiding emotional turmoil. His mask slipped into place easily, even as each cut seemed to tear into him just as it tore into Steve. He knew he had to wait to break, but how long? Steve was suffering now because of him, and he could put a stop to it at any time. He didn’t know how long to wait. If he broke too soon they wouldn’t escape, but every second he waited was another that Steve had to mangle himself. Little of the pain showed on his handsome face but that didn’t mean anything—Steve would never show Hydra how much they were really hurting him.

“Halt,” Hydra Goon said impatiently, surveying Tony with displeasure. “Apparently Mr. Stark is not very moved by this display.”

Tony kept his face expressionless, relief and fear warring inside him. Maybe this meant they would leave Steve alone now, and turn back to him. Or maybe they had something else in mind. Steve let his hand fall down to his side.

“Rogers, it is time,” Hydra Goon said. “Mr. Stark, I’m afraid we must attempt a more drastic measure.”

To Tony’s horror, Steve lifted the blade again and pressed the point to his jugular again.

“If you don’t agree to help them I’ll kill myself,” Steve said. Matter-of-factly, as if this was something to take in stride. His voice had that slightly mechanical quality that told Tony he was parroting the words that had been whispered to him at the start.

Tony’s thought of the blood soaking Steve’s shirt and had absolutely no doubt that that was true.

“Tony,” Steve murmured. “I’ll do it. Ten seconds.”

Tony couldn’t tear his gaze away from the way the indented the delicate skin Steve’s throat or thin trickle of blood marring the shiny metal of the blade. One tiny flick and it could slice through Steve’s jugular, spewing bright red arterial blood all over himself and Tony and the floor. Nine, eight, seven… the blade pressed closer. Tony couldn’t think, there was just the point of the blade and Steve’s skin and nothing else.

“I’ll do it,” Tony said.

A long, silent moment passed.

When Steve didn’t budge, didn’t pull the blade away, Tony wondered for a horrified moment if Steve was going to kill himself anyway, if that was what the Hydra agent had whispered in his ear. The edge pressed closer and another thick, crimson drop rolled down onto his knuckles.

“Say it again,” Hydra Goon commanded Tony. “Promise me you’ll do exactly as I say. Build exactly what I want you to build.”

Tony’s mind was blank, an experience he associated vaguely with panic and a fuzzy image of Yinsen bent over with a hot coal hovering inches from his mouth. Mostly panic. His mouth seemed to move on its own. “I’ll do it. Leave Cap alone. Please.”

The Hydra agent _hmm_ -ed for a moment, then gestured at Steve. “Put it down.”

Steve lowered the blade and Tony could breathe again. All other thoughts—fear for himself, worry about the plan or making it seem convincing or not admitting his real motivations returned slowly, but he realized in a slightly giddy way that Hydra’s own tactics had worked against them. In those moments, the world had narrowed so there was nothing but Tony and Steve and keeping Steve alive. There had been nothing else to say.

The Hydra agent turned back to Tony. “Now I need another promise. You will create nothing but what I ask of you. You will program it exactly as I ask you to. No clever technological tricks to save yourself.”

“I’ll build them how you want,” Tony said honestly. Then his mind kicked into gear again. Their plan would only work under one condition. “One thing—I need him. Steve. Cap. Need him as an assistant. Nobody else will do.”

Another fuzzy flash of Yinsen and the coal and Tony thought, this was it, they were going to figure out what he was up to and he’d never set Steve free.

But Hydra Goon only said, “Very well. Rogers will assist you.”

It was so easy that Tony could have laughed. Maybe they’d finally gotten lucky.

* * *

Shortly after Tony and Steve were escorted to a lab. They’d let Tony put the sling back on, and even given them both new shirts, but Tony’s arm and ribs still ached fiercely, constantly grinding away at his ability to concentrate. Not that he couldn’t do what Hydra was asking—build Iron Man suits that incorporated the energy signature of the tesseract, which had apparently already been moved offsite somewhere—but it was going to be extremely inconvenient to have to rely on Steve for all of the physical labor. But then, he’d done more with less. Memories of the cave were swimming to the surface far more often than he liked.

The lab was surprisingly well-stocked for a secret bad guy lair. It had two levels, an upper balcony with several modern-looking computer consoles, overlooking the grand open space of the manufacturing floor below. After examining the supplies for a few minutes Tony got to work. The sooner he could get Steve in the way of some heavy machinery, the better for both of them. Unfortunately, there was a lot of planning and coding and fabricating small pieces that had to be done first. Tony settled down at one of the computer consoles to work. Steve stood beside him, gazing over the short railing at the manufacturing equipment sprawling below.

Tony had promised to make suits, and he was fairly certain that the truth serum in his blood would not allow him to do anything else, at least without announcing it loudly to the room or at any of the various Hydra goon’s probing questions (what he was doing, what it was all for, was he building what they wanted). He assuaged his conscience by making sure that the suits wouldn’t be operational, at least not until the very end, which if all went well they would never reach. He didn’t like the idea of Hydra having even the plans, but there was no avoiding it. He would just have to make sure that after their escape, the Avengers could come back and shut them down.

Despite his pain and fear, Tony was surprised to find himself getting lost in the intricacies of the work, and before long time was slipping away into a blur of coding and programming and circuits and armor plating designs. Of course, several things kept him from forgetting he wasn’t back in his own workshop. The presence of the guards and their incessant questions, for one, and having to rely on Steve rather than Dummy or You to move things around for another. Also, the lack of JARVIS meant he had to type out an annoying amount of things himself, an activity made more annoying by the fact that his right arm was all but useless and even when he maneuvered it to the keyboard, moving his fingers sent pain shooting viciously up his arm. Nothing to be done about it, though. Picking at the keyboard one-handedly wasn’t an option, and the discomfort faded into the background along with the rest once the work was really underway.

He jumped at the feel of strong fingers wrapping around his shoulder. It was only Steve.

Tony looked up, blinking away the lines of code he’d been staring at the for the last…however long. Steve’s expression was warm and concerned. Still weird. He’d never thought Steve would like him at all, let alone look at him like… like someone worth protecting.

“What is it?” Tony asked. “Something wrong?”

Steve’s face softened even more. Like there was real affection there. “It’s been twelve hours.”

Tony blinked again. Okay, sure, that explained the stiffness in his ribs and back and arm and the dull headache and the slight persistent nausea of having eaten nothing but a few bites of sandwich in…however long. Still. “So?”

“So, they said we can call it a night,” Steve said. His hand was still on Tony’s shoulder, the warmth of it making Tony long for rest and comfort and relief. All the things that made up Captain America. Okay, so, maybe he was verging on delirium just a little.

He shook himself mentally. It didn’t matter how much he hurt or how much he wanted to go back to the little room and collapse into bed while Steve, what, tucked him in? Stupid. He had too much to do. Steve was relying on him to get this done, to free him from the tesseract enerhy’s control. Wasn’t like Tony been sleeping much lately anyway, and compared to his recent, anxiety-fueled marathons twelve hours in the lab was just getting started.

Rather than explain all of this to Cap, using up all that breath and effort, he brushed Steve’s hand off and turned back to his console, surreptitiously trying to stretch his stiff back without making his ribs seize up in pain. No such luck, but it didn’t matter. He was already turning over the next line of code in his mind. The most important thing was getting it done as soon as he could, so they could both get the hell out of dodge, and he had at least another eight hours’ worth of work ahead of him. At least. The tesseract energy was unstable and hard to reproduce, which led to a whole host of problems when it came to—

“Tony,” Steve said worriedly.

“Hmm?” Tony said, already lost again in the code.

Steve sighed softly. “Never mind.”

Thirteen hours later and a few sad sandwiches later (Steve had insisted), he had a workable design. Workable meaning that he could honestly tell the Hydra goons it was ready for fabrication, and get Steve knocked out long enough to save him. _It’s a stupid plan_ , a very persistent voice in his head told him, but he had long since learned to ignore that voice and it wasn’t hard to do now.

“It’s ready,” he announced, surprised by how hoarse his voice sounded. He coughed slightly to clear his throat then had to actively work at not passing out at the pain in his chest.

There was Steve again, bracing him with a hand on his shoulder. Tony resisted the urge to lean into him.

When the stars stopped skittering across his vision, he saw Hydra Goon smiling like a snake. “Excellent.”

Tony frowned slightly. “Yeah, sure, excellent,” he said. “But, we still have to actually build them. You know. Down there,” he gestured to over the balcony railing to the manufacturing floor.

The agent kept smiling. There was something off about it, though, like he was in on some joke that Tony didn’t know.

“What,” Tony snapped, adrenaline flooding his exhausted mind again. Something was off. Something was _off_.

The agent only turned to the men with the notepads who had been following them around the whole time. “I believe our beta test is complete. Stark can be removed back to his cell.”

“Beta test? What the hell are you talking about?” Tony snapped, standing up and ignoring the rush of pain and vertigo and the weird way his back cracked after so many hours in the chair.

“The first part of the test, of course, was to ensure that Rogers would be unable to overcome his mechanical controls to avoid causing you pain, or in an attempt at self-preservation,” Hydra Goon said. “However, that was far from our only goal. Did you not wonder why Rogers was ordered to spend the night with you?”

“Yes,” Tony said honestly, because they’d shot him up with the serum again sometime around hour seventeen. “I assumed it was to make me feel…close to him, so your little suicide ruse would work.”

“Well, yes, I suppose that would seem reasonable,” Hydra Goon said, as if he hadn’t thought of that himself. “But that was hardly the real purpose for of all this.”

Tony’s head was spinning, his heart was pounding hard against where the arc reactor used to be. His mind raced back over everything that had happened that night, every bit of conversation they’d had. If Steve’s stricken expression was any indication, he was doing the same. Nothing had happened, except Tony had spilled his embarrassing feelings and they’d come up with their plan. No… Steve had come up with their plan, and Tony had gone along with it because he’d been too tired and scared and in pain to think of anything better. And because he trusted Steve, would always trust Steve. But that was beside the point.

Unless it really, really wasn’t.

“To be perfectly honest, we thought it would take more persuasion for Rogers to convince you to perfect the design for us,” the Hydra agent said.  

Though he’d nearly worked it out himself, it was the agent’s words that made Tony’s head swivel around to stare at Steve, who was standing motionless beside the Hydra agent with his back to the balcony, his face a mask of horror and disbelief. Except, Tony realized with a sinking feeling, it made sense. Steve hadn’t been acting like that because he cared about _Tony_. He’d been acting under orders, strengthening Tony’s trust and other things so that he could suggest the one thing Tony would never have agreed to otherwise—working for Hydra. That was probably why he hadn’t shot down Tony’s admission right then. And no doubt, Hydra had known all along, and planned for all of this. What were the chances, really, that the room hadn’t been bugged?

“Tony, I never, I swear,” Steve protested.

Tony hung his head and snorted softly, enraged at himself for not seeing it, for being so damn glad that Steve was paying him any kind of attention that he’d been blind to the obvious.

“Yes, the most difficult part was ensuring that he wouldn’t even remember the order. Rogers thought he was helping you. Rogers thought he was saving you both.”

Steve’s eyes were blown wide now, and he looked at Tony pleadingly. Tony didn’t know what to think. If Steve truly hadn’t known, that meant Hydra had far more control over him than either of them had guessed. And who knew what other orders they might have implanted in his brain? Before, Tony would have said that nothing in the world could make him build Iron Man suits for Hydra, of all evil Nazi organization, and yet all it had taken was a few words from Steve to give them everything they wanted. He could only imagine what would happen if Steve were sent back to the Avengers. No doubt, with a few well-placed words, he could tear the Avengers apart. Hell, Steve could probably tear the whole world apart. And if they could get Steve to do that, there was no telling what they could get Tony to do, really. They’d claimed that the mind control wouldn’t get them the creative results that they needed but obviously, obviously that was far from the truth. Tony had been nothing but a pawn in a far more dangerous game.

With that thought came the kind of clarity that Tony only associated with dark freezing caves and nukes above Manhattan.

He had to do something, and _now_. So he wasn’t going to free Steve by sending him to the manufacturing floor as he’d planned. Unless…

A quick calculation of a couple of angles and vectors and there it was. The impact might kill him, but it might be his last chance to save Steve.

Tony charged and slammed his shoulder into Steve’s chest with force enough to tear an involuntary scream from his own throat as every broken bone and bruise registered the impact. For a moment he thought it hadn’t been enough, that somehow he’d overestimated what remained of his own strength, but after an interminable moment Steve stumbled back and back and then they were both toppling over the low balcony railing to the floor below.

Tony registered an instant of spinning and flailing limbs followed by jarring agony as he landed on his already injured arm and side. He passed out. He was pretty sure. He opened his eyes once to see Steve lying prone beside him, blood trickling from his temple. The next time he opened his eyes he was being hauled upright—and fuck, fuck, _fuck_ did that hurt, his chest was a mess of pain and he couldn’t breathe, there was something wet caught in his throat—and there was Steve being hauled upright beside him, still and pale. The delirious desire to laugh came and passed, because he’d calculated his angles right and landed Cap on his head but there was always the chance that it had been too much, Steve wouldn’t wake up at all, and if that wasn’t the worst thing in the world he didn’t know what was.

The Hydra goons dragged him, hands gripping his upper arms, the pain in his right arm and chest and threatening to pull him into darkness again. They were dragging Steve beside him, his head lolling against his chest. Tony watched Steve as best he could, torn between thinking, _At least I got to tell him how I feel_ and _At least we won’t ever have to talk about it_ , but mostly trying to ignore the sucking dread in the pit of his stomach that this was going to be the end for both of them, whether Hydra killed them or made them slaves to their bidding. That he’d failed Steve when it really mattered. Tried to cut the wire and got them both tangled up in it. And God, he’d been a selfish bastard, leaning on Steve when Steve’s fate had to be the worst of all. But of course Tony had been too lost in his own shit to see that then. As his mind raced, going over all the events of the last two days and the last two years, all he could feel was a profound sense of regret. It was the end and he’d never made things right.

Tony coughed, something wet and warm burbling up in his throat and coating his mouth with copper. He’d calculated that Steve could handle the drop from the balcony but his own survival had been much less certain, beaten and broken as he already was. He couldn’t breathe.

He forced himself to focus on Steve’s face, probably the last nice thing he’d see before either the punctured lung got to him or Hydra did. Even Steve’s face was swimming now, starting to move out of Tony’s blurring vision.

Except… that wasn’t him. That was all Steve.

Though it felt like he was looking at him upside down and underwater, Tony could see Steve blink slowly, a few times, and lift his head to see the agents hauling him backward. Then his eyes met Tony’s, steady and sure for the first time since they’d been captured.

The rest was a blur of grace and speed and movement. Steve spun up in some sort of graceful ninja kick, knocking out both agents dragging him and ending up on back on his feet like a cat. The Hydra agents holding Tony were next. There was gunfire but Steve was everywhere at once and before long the agents with the guns were slumped unconscious on the floor and Steve was facing off against his handler, who was backed into a corner and looked terrified now that Steve was so clearly not under his control anymore.

“Rogers,” he ordered. “Rogers, stop. Stop!”

Steve didn’t stop. Hydra Goon dropped like a stone.

Then Tony was being scooped up in strong arms and pressed against Steve’s broad chest. His arm and ribs and everything else protested, making him groan pitifully, but Steve said, “Hang in there, Tony. I’m going to get you out.”

And despite it all, despite the horror of the torture and Steve’s forced betrayal or how his kindness had been used against Tony to great effect, he believed him. Through it all, one thing had never wavered—Steve’s kindness, his ability to care for Tony despite being in hell himself, despite literally having Hydra in his head trying to screw them both over. Steve was that strong. Steve was that good. And Steve was going to get them out.

Tony closed his eyes and everything faded into darkness.


	4. Epilogue

Steve drummed his fingers on the arm of the plastic chair, reminding himself—as he had many times over the past several hours—that patience was a virtue. Tony was going to be fine, and Steve would see him soon enough.

He’d been assured that Sam, Natasha, Barton, and Tony’s friend Colonel Rhodes, along with what remained of SHIELD, were capably handling the shut-down of the Hydra base and the confiscation of all of Tony’s newly-invented technology. Steve had wanted to go, but SHIELD Medical had first insisted on checking him for signs of continued obedience to Hydra (understandably), then on treating his fractured skull and the lattice of healing cuts that covered his chest (less understandably—the super soldier serum would take care of all of it). Sam and the others had promised to call him if his capabilities were needed, but the few brief updates he’d gotten made it sound like Hydra hadn’t known what had hit them.

Steve might have been more frustrated at being benched if Tony hadn’t spent a horrifying hour in critical condition with a punctured lung, and another five in a surgery that was apparently complicated by the scar tissue spread throughout his lungs. Yet another thing Steve was hearing about for the first time. Steve had drawn both sympathetic and horrified stares when he’d explained patiently to the doctors nursing staff that he’d caused the initial damage to Stark’s ribs, nine fractures and two breaks, with his fists alone.

Agonizing as it was to wait, the surgery had gone fine and Stark had been moved to a private room a few minutes earlier. 

Pepper was visiting Tony now, and Steve had elected to give them their space. He thought their relationship had ended recently—something about the suits, and Tony building them against her wishes. He didn’t really know. Whatever the case, it wasn’t his place to intrude. She had known him for far longer, after all.

That thought did little to assuage his restlessness. He’d had enough of waiting helplessly to last a lifetime. He needed to see for himself that Tony was going to recover, and more than that, he needed to make things right. He’d failed Tony in too many ways.

Finally, the door clicked open and Pepper exited, tired but relieved. “He’s ready for you.” Steve’s expression must have showed more alarm than he’d intended at the ambiguous phrase, because she smiled and added, “I mean, he wants to see you. He kept asking about you and I think he just kicked me out.”

“Oh,” Steve said. “Well, thank you, ma’am.”

Pepper disappeared down the hallway and Steve walked into the room slowly. His mind was simultaneously racing and blank. He had so much to beg forgiveness for—from letting them get taken in the first place to hurting Tony, again and again and again, to failing to see that Hydra had been manipulating him all along—but no idea where to start. And then, there was Tony’s confession, that admission to deeper feeling for Steve and a desire to have more than they had. Whatever that meant. Not to mention the other concerning things Steve had learned—that Tony suffered from shell shock, that he thought his own life worth so little. It was impossible to know where to start.

Lying on the bed, surrounded by alien-looking medical instruments, Tony looked pale and small—and for a moment Steve thought he finally understood why Bucky and his ma had always seemed so worried about him after something put him in a bed like that. Tony looked so… vulnerable. 

“Hey,” Steve said, smiling through the tightness in his own chest.

Tony brightened at seeing him before a guarded expression slipped over his features. “Hey, Cap,” he said hoarsely. “How’s the head?”

Steve unconsciously reached up to the small bandage still covering his temple, not as surprised as he might once have been that that was Tony’s first question. The headache he’d been steadfastly ignoring since the rescue throbbed harder. “It’s fine.”

“Skull fracture, huh,” Tony said, the guilt in his voice belying his causal words. “My bad.”

“It’s fine. Really. How are _you_ feel—” Steve started to ask, then stopped himself and amended, “Has the truth serum worn off yet?”

“Yeah, thank God,” Tony said. “Check this out: I’m the pope. My mother’s name was Barack Obama. I love hospitals. I’m having a secret love affair with Thor, but he still won’t tell me the secret to his beautiful magazine cover hair. But, ah… thanks for checking. Better late than never.”

“Of course, Tony,” Steve said, tentatively taking a seat in the plastic chair by Tony’s bed. While Steve was fairly sure he’d had enough of plastic hospital chairs to last several lifetimes, he didn’t like looming over Tony when Tony looked so small. Tony’s eyes followed him, though he winced when he tried to turn his head.

“Normally I’d be on a lot of the good stuff right now, but I didn’t feel like trading one truth serum for another, least not until I saw you,” Tony said, apparently seeing the concern on Steve’s face as need for an explanation. “Some local anesthetics, but I wanted my head clear. How about you? Done being Hydra’s little marionette?”

Steve pursed his lips, thinking about how easily the colorful phrasing would have gotten under his skin not so long ago. But there was real concern in Tony’s voice, and he answered that instead. “I’m free of it. Apparently _cognitive recalibration_ worked just as well for me as it did for Barton.”

“Good,” Tony said seriously.

Steve nodded, the pounding in his head increasing slightly with the movement. It only served to remind him how easily he’d gotten off. He’d be back to normal in a few weeks. Tony was looking at months of painful recuperation.

“I’m sorry,” Steve blurted at the same time as Tony said, “Steve—”

They looked at each other.

“Uh, go ahead,” Steve said, his cheeks heating for some reason. Talking to Tony had always been difficult, but only because he only understood half of what came out of his mouth and the other half seemed intentionally aimed at annoying him. This was very different, but not much easier. 

Tony takes a shallow breath, “No, it’s fine, you go.”

Because Steve was bursting to apologize, he took the invitation without being asked again. “I’m sorry,” he said again. “For everything, Tony. I should have protected you. I should never have let them get to me in the first place, and once they had, I should have done a better job of making sure that you didn’t get hurt because of it. I know you can handle yourself in the suit, but out of it, your safety is my responsibility, and I’m sorry I didn’t do better. I’m sorry I let Hydra play me.” The thought of it made something familiar and acidic and bitter burn its way up from his gut to leave an unpleasant taste in his mouth.

A silence fell after he stopped talking, and for a horrible few moments Steve was convinced that it wasn’t enough, and Tony was trying to figure out how best to ask him to leave.

Instead, Tony just let out a shallow breath and said, in a tone that suggested Steve was maybe a little stupid, “None of that was your fault, Cap.”

“It was,” Steve said, needing Tony to believe it. If Tony didn’t believe it, he could never forgive Steve for what he’d done.

“Come on. Pretty sure being mind-controlled means you get a get-out-of-jail free card when it comes to responsibility,” Tony said lightly.

“Never liked Monopoly,” Steve said.

Tony rolled his eyes.  “Of course you didn’t. Point is, none of this is your fault. No way, no how. Plus, what with the whole you fighting your way out past an entire Hydra base with a cracked skull to save my life, I’m pretty sure I owe you one.”

“I _hurt_ you,” Steve said, looking down reflexively at his hands. It had taken a while to clean the blood all the way off his knuckles.

“Cap,” Tony said, his voice softening. “I don’t blame you. Through all that—I never blamed you. Never stopped trusting you, even. God, I probably would have built the suits for them anyway if I thought it meant saving your life. I wasn’t really acting, there.”

“You shouldn’t have,” Steve said. “After all I—“

“Wasn’t you,” Tony cut him off curtly.

Steve opened his mouth, then closed it. He wanted for force Tony to believe him, to make him see that Steve had let him down so he could beg forgiveness and then, maybe, move on from there. But he also wanted to avoid starting another argument, like they had before the capture, and he was pretty sure that that was the only way their current conversation was headed. Instead, he let out a breath and said, “What did you want to tell me?”

Tony snorted softly, then grimaced. “Actually… same thing.”

“Same thing?” Steve asked blankly.

“Apologize,” Tony said, his voice dropping in tone in what Steve now recognized as embarrassment.

“For what?” Steve asked. Now he felt totally lost.

“Oh, let’s see,” Tony said, raising his good hand, the one not encased in a thick white cast, and counting off on his fingers, “being a selfish dick at the start of all this, being a selfish dick in the middle, and not seeing that Hydra was controlling you and nearly getting us both turned into mindless Hydra slaves for the rest of our lives.” He was panting slightly when he stopped, his face tightening in a grimace.

“Tony, you saved us,” Steve said.

“I got lucky. You kicked ass.”

Steve hung his head, feeling an entirely new headache building. “If it wasn’t for you we’d both still be in that base.”

“All right, fine,” Tony grumbled, then looked down at the pale blue blanket covering his chest and spoke to it instead. “Whatever. I also wanted to…to tell you you can forget what I said.”

“About the shell—post-traumatic stress?” Steve asked. That had been Tony’s big secret, after all, the one thing he hadn’t wanted Steve to know.

Tony winced. “Shit. I forgot about that.”

“It’s nothing to be ashamed of, and I don’t think any less of you,” Steve said, so enthusiastically that Tony did a double take. “If anything, I’m impressed again. Moving back to New York, putting on the armor again… that takes a lot of strength. I’m proud of you, Tony.”

“Uh…thanks,” Tony said awkwardly. His chin had crept back down to his chest again. “Nobody else is.” His eyes traveled briefly toward the door where Pepper had left. Then he cleared his throat. “But that’s not what I meant.”

Steve’s brow furrowed, partly at the idea that anyone in Tony’s life wouldn’t appreciate what the struggle Tony had gone through, was going through, and partly in confusion at what Tony had just said. “What did you mean?”

“I meant. About. You and me,” Tony said. He sounded like he was forcing the words out from behind some great barrier. “The part where I said I wanted to be… you know… friends and… more.”

Steve straightened, another frown turning the corners of his lips down. After assuming for so many months that Tony thought him a relic hardly worth his time, he’d been glad to hear Tony admit that he saw something more for them. He liked Tony, too, after all. He reached out and rested a hand on Tony’s good arm, hoping to show how he felt through the simple touch.

Tony flinched away, then grimaced when Steve started to pull his hand back. “No, no, it’s okay,” he said, and waited for Steve to tentatively put his hand back before adding, “Still can’t help it.”

“Are you sure?” Steve asked, not wanting to do anything that might make him uncomfortable.

“Yeah,” Tony said. “It… helps.”

Steve nodded, and waited for Tony to go on.

“Look, uh. All I wanted to say is, I know you don’t like me much, and you don’t really want to be my friend. Being on the team together, that’s all I need. Want. Really. I promise I won’t try to be your BFF or, or hit on you, or anything else. So if you don’t make it weird I won’t make it weird and we can just go back to the way things were and you can forget I ever said anything. Okay?”

Steve blinked.  The only think he could think to ask was, “Why do you think I don’t want to be your friend?”

Tony’s jaw clenched. “You made that pretty clear, Cap.”

Steve thought back to that chaotic day on the Helicarrier. He’d been annoyed at Stark, the emotion heightened by the Tesseract’s power. But Stark had given as good as he’d gotten and it had never occurred to Steve—after he’d seen what Stark was really made of, after the battle and his unadulterated joy at Tony having survived—that Tony might have taken his comments to heart.

“Tony,” he said, a short sigh later. “I do like you. And I do want to be friends.”

“Right. Sure you do,” Tony said, as if he didn’t quite believe it. Or as though it wasn’t quite what he wanted.

“What is it?” Steve asked. A small, sick part of him missed how easy it had been to talk to Tony on the truth serum, when he hadn’t had to second guess everything Tony said.

Tony was squinting at him. “You actually…mean it.”

“Of course. What did you think I’ve been trying to do?” Steve asked. “Every time I’ve made an effort, you’ve pushed me away or started a fight.”

It was Tony’s turn to look nonplussed, as if this had never occurred to him. He blinked rapidly and said in a small voice, “Oh.”

Still a little puzzled, Steve said, “Can we put that behind us?” He paused, a little afraid to move forward when he wasn’t entirely sure what twenty-first century customs dictated. But he was fairly sure that Tony had implied what Steve thought he implied. It still amazed him how those types of inclinations, the one Steve had always suppressed out of necessity. He cleared his throat and smiled softly. “I really do want to get to know you better. A lot better. As friends or…more. If you’d like that. I think you’re swell, Tony.”

After all they’d been through, it was an incredible understatement, but several emotions seemed to pass over Tony’s face in the space of a second nonetheless—disbelief, amusement, unmistakable hope. His expression settled into one of doubt. “You really mean it.”

“We could see if there’s any of that truth serum left over,” Steve said.

Tony’s eyes narrowed for a few seconds before he let out a short huff of a laugh, winced, then seemed to relax. “Funny.”

Steve smiled wider, moving his hand down Tony’s arm so that he was clasping Tony’s hand in his own. Tony stared at it like he wasn’t sure what had just happened, but his fingers tightened slightly around Steve’s anyway. Steve waited for him to meet his eyes again before saying, “I mean it.”

Tony nodded slightly, his eyes still wide.

Steve squeezed his hand again and leaned forward to press a chaste kiss against his forehead. Tony let out a soft snort through his nose, looking for all the world like he was fighting tears.

Still smiling, Steve said, “I think we should start by going over the plans for the Avengers complex again. We still have to decide about that bar, you know.”

For a moment Tony was silent and Steve was worried that bringing up the source of their earlier argument had been a bad idea, but as he’d hoped it seemed instead to shake Tony out of his shock. Tony finally returned his smile with a watery one of his own. “Thanks,” he said simply.

“You should get some rest,” Steve said. “I can stay, if you’d like.”

Tony’s eyes met his, and another bit of understanding seemed to pass over him. His fingers tightened around Steve’s again, his thumb brushing over Steve’s as if in memory of a gentle touch smoothing out his hair.

“Yeah,” Tony said, his voice still hoarse and full of unspoken emotion and disbelief. “Yeah, that’d be… nice. If you don’t mind.”

“Of course,” Steve said, smiling gently at Tony again. It was true that he hadn’t slept in a few days himself, but a few hours more was nothing. Not when Tony was lying there so vulnerable, and looking up at him like _that_. “It’s the least I can do.”

Tony closed his eyes, and before long, his breathing had slowed and his hand slackened in Steve’s. Steve watched him sleep, his mind wandering back to their night in captivity and how impossible it had seemed to make things right then. They still had a long way to go, there was no doubt—Steve would never forgive himself for what he had done, and what he’d failed to do, and whether Tony blamed him or not they had a lot of rebuilding to do. But for perhaps the first time since that fateful day on the helicarrier, things were looking up.

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on [Tumblr](http://starkly-tony.tumblr.com)!


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